


A Drowned Ceremony of Innocence

by interstellarcadence



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series, 悪魔城ドラキュラ 闇の呪印 | Castlevania: Curse of Darkness, 悪魔城伝説 | Castlevania lll: Dracula's Curse
Genre: F/F, M/M, also everyone is gay sorry, this is a what if adrian was awake for cod fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-14 19:06:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14775474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellarcadence/pseuds/interstellarcadence
Summary: In a forgotten garden shrouded by midnight, Trevor Belmont convinces Adrian to stay. Three years later, they will have to face the rise of Castlevania again, standing alongside old friends, and witnessing the fall of loved ones to Dracula's foul curse. Sypha reunites with a charming witch she once helped flee across Wallachia, Adrian finds out what happened to two of his childhood friends, and Trevor continues the family tradition of getting in way over his head.





	1. Chapter 1

_ December 22 1476 _

The garden was the only thing the mist had not swallowed whole.

And, still it looks so different now. After Lisa’s death there was no time at dusk nor dawn for gardening, or playing make-believe, or childhood. There was war, and strategy, learning this spell, training to counter that lunge with a parry, but never any time to grieve. The bones of dead rose bushes jut up from cracked soil, the only testament to Adrian’s youth. The hydrangeas left their corpses behind to remind him that his mother’s favorite flower was always a mortal thing too.

His boots crunch against soil thirsty for water, a slow procession towards the crypt placed in the middle of the floral sanctuary. He never really understood death until he looked in his mother’s eyes as she burned. Only when he saw how she looked like a wilting lavender stem, being dried up by the sun’s harsh light, that’s when he knew mother was never coming home. But he doesn’t have time to be sad right now. He must carry on the Tepes tradition of a hollow apathy, a slow funeral march towards nothing in particular.

He stops, and his vision follows the stone structure, from the bottom step to the crying angel perched on its roof. This was the one part of the castle constructed by hand, and as such, the one remnant remaining.

They had always known Lisa was going to die. But with her acceptance of medical science, and the sheer volume of knowledge possessed in Castlevania’s library, it always seemed like a far-off ending that could simply be rewritten. As such, they never thought much about when the tomb would house a body, or when Lisa’s notebook would finally succumb to blank pages.

Perhaps if she had been buried there, this moment would not seem so tragic to Adrian. Maybe it could have been a homecoming, a welcome glimpse to the dream of being just human, or the poetic justice of ending at the beginning. But there had not been a body to bury. Only a crypt standing as a statue depicting a lack of closure. Adrian steps inside. This is the perfect place to seal himself away.


	2. II.

_ December 22 1476 _

His presence does not scare away the spiders or rats finding refuge from the troubles of humans. He is thankful for that last kindness. His golden eyes take one last glimpse at the decayed garden until his sweeping blonde lashes turn vision to darkness. As his feet float up from the dusty marble floor, his arms are drawn to his chest, forearms crossing over each other, his palms splayed across his shoulders. He slowly sinks into the velvet-lined coffin housing his mother’s empty future, letting his magic guide him into this eternal resting place.

He uses his last bit of magic to close the lid.

The rats scurry into corners to sleep.

Everything is quiet.

Adrian can almost dream now.

But then, boots pounding into the soil outside, crunching over the dead hydrangeas, a breath is winding in and out of tired lungs. Adrian’s batlike ears twitch with the sound of a racing heartbeat, then the sound of heels clicking up marble steps.

“Alucard!” Trevor’s voice ricochets around the tomb. “Alucard! I know you’re in here! Answer me!”

Adrian is thankful his heart was born unbeating, for surely this must be a time where it would be trying to escape his chest. He hears those heels clicking again, and the lid to the coffin is peeled open. Adrian opens his eyes to see Trevor’s baby blues staring down at him.

“You said you would stay.”

“I said I would _consider it,_ ” Adrian replies without hesitation.

“Am I not incentive enough?”

“Trevor.” His voice is more sign than statement, curls shifting as he starts sitting up. “You know I have to do this.”

“No, I don’t! Quite frankly, this seems entirely dramatic and _completely_ unnecessary.”

“You can’t understand.”

“Oh, I can’t?” Trevor’s voice feigns a mock surprise, unafraid to show his irritation. “My family is dead. I am the latest pawn in a familial tradition of self-sacrifice on behalf of people who hate me. You’re entirely right, I have no idea what it feels like to be outcast, or worthless, or whatever emotion you’re letting control you right now.”

Adrian is sitting up now, simply staring at Trevor.

“I’m sorry,” comes his eventual reply, running a clawed hand through his blonde ringlets.

“You’re right. I don’t have any authority to tell you what you do or do not feel.”

“I don’t need your validation. I need you to give living a chance.” Trevor’s hand is extended towards Adrian, and after a moment of hesitation, he places his palm in Trevor’s grip. He fully steps out of the coffin, and together they walk into the midnight of a forgotten garden.

It is only as they leave that Adrian notices a patch of tulips still blooming, despite years of care.

He hopes this is a sign of times to come.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey uhm so  
> 1) no proofreading we die like men  
> 2) julia is jewish and yall can just deal with it

_ August 14 1476 _

Julia’s breath is caught up in the ash, but she can’t stop running.  
  
Sypha’s yelling something behind her, but her mind is too far gone to adrenaline now. 

The bottom of her dress has devolved to tatters, but that’s okay, because it only aids her speed. Her hair is carried by the wind, almost glowing with the soot that has collected on her curls. 

She looks almost like an angel escaping the fall of Babel.

But even angels and witches reach the point of exhaustion. Once they are far enough into the Baljhet mountains, she collapses beside a freshwater stream, grateful for the natural cold of the water as she splashes some on her face.

“We’re safe up here,” comes Sypha’s voice, uncharacteristically devoid of much emotion. It was usually never hard to get a read on her, but Julia can’t figure out what’s going on.

“Are you okay?” Julia turns to face her, finding Sypha now seated too.

“For the most part.” 

Julia just nods in response, too tired to try and sustain a conversation. She had been running for so long, she hadn’t noticed how silent it had gotten. She couldn’t hear the screams or the praying or the fire anymore. Just her own labored breathing and the stream scurrying along the rocks. The only remnant of the hunting of her kind was a soft glow, buried beneath the forest below, barely visible now.

The Speakers hadn’t arrived in time, and Julia doubts Sypha will ever forgive herself for that. But Julia can’t find it within herself to hold resentment-- only a grief that seems too small for the life she has just lost. Her mother, her older sister. Her childhood best friend and the older woman who had taught her alchemy. Not to mention all of those she knew in passing. She feels like she should be sobbing or screaming or do anything but simply sitting and listening to a stream.

She looks to the setting sun. Sypha follows her gaze.

“It’s getting dark,” she states, getting up and slinging her bag over her shoulder. 

“Do you suggest we set up camp?”

“Seems like a good idea.” 

Julia stands up too, and begins the search for wood. She wanders into a maze of deadfalls, and collects all her weary arms can carry, struggling to see too far in the oncoming darkness. She plops the wood in front of Sypha, who has already crafted a firepit from soil and rocks. 

It almost seems painful to set a fire, considering the days previous events. But neither of them are willing to freeze to death for the sake of poetic justice.

If anything, it would be more disrespectful to do anything but survive.

Sypha sets fire to a strand of grated bark, which ignites a bundle of frayed tinder, which spreads to twigs and sticks and eventually long logs of poplar. Fire is a gradual thing, a commitment, and one the two witches are relying on to live through the night.

“Do the Speakers worship any Gods?” Julia asks, her voice interrupting the pops of combusting sap.

“Not exactly.” 

“Do you mind if I were to say a prayer?”

“Not at all.” 

Julia extends her hand to Sypha, and Sypha gently places her palm in Julia’s.

Julia closes her eyes, and Sypha follows, both of them blind to the woodland creatures lurking around them. When her father died, mourning seemed like such a linear thing. _Aninunt_ to _Avelut,_ the burial to sitting _Shiva_ , _Shloshim_ to _Shneim asar chodesh_. But there will never be a burial. There is no family home to sit in. Only ash and a shaky Faith. She feels Sypha give her hand a soft squeeze. She finds the courage to pray.

_ “ _ _ Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam, dayan ha-emet.” _

She uses her free hand to tear her jacket on the left, over her heart.  _ For her mother.  _ Another tear, on the right.  _ For her sister.  _

Maybe she should say Kaddish. But it doesn’t feel right. None of this feels right at all. She breaks Sypha’s hold on her hand and succumbs to the tears she has been trying to fight. Maybe she doesn’t have to be brave right now. Maybe she can just mourn. And maybe God can someday forgive her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3) some translations:  
> a) "Aninunt to Avelut, the burial to sitting Shiva, Shloshim to Shneim asar chodesh" Aninut is the first stage of mourning, before the burial, focused on dealing with shock and immediate grief. Avelut follows the burial and encompasses Shiva, Shloshim and Shneim asar chodesh.  
> b) Shiva- lit. seven, the seven days after burial. the family stays in the deceased home for seven days and recieves visitors.  
> c) Shloshim- 30 days, starting from the day of burial, men cant shave or cut their hair, there are special groups studying the Torah in the deceased person's name.  
> d) Shneim asar chodesh - means 12 months, for a parent. another prayer is said at synagouge.  
> 4) why does julia tear her clothes? -- it's because of a thing called Keriah, where you the mourner makes a tear on the left over the heart for a lost parent, and on the right for a lost sibling.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i cant believe im actually updating this and doing so regularly...... thats a first for me  
> anyways, there's some mild/soft gore due to descriptions of isaac and hector's injuries  
> and hector is deaf bc it just seems right for some reason?  
> so yeah 
> 
> also i've gone back to other chapters and added in dates because i realized the timeline in my head wasn't really translating to the page hahaha

_ August 14 1476 _

Julia silently prayed alongside Sypha and their campfire, and perhaps, that was what granted Isaac’s survival.

Because certainly, he should have died. Hector did not like to kill, but that didn’t mean he was any less good at it. Isaac’s blood spills across the grass, mimicking a red dew in early morning. This does not stop his slow crawl towards that cave up ahead, shelter from the storm.

The most damaging blow was one to his side, just below his ribcage on the right. Isaac couldn’t tell how deep it was, and frankly, didn’t want to know. For one so accustomed to blood, it is unusual how squeamish it still has the ability to make him. Perhaps there are some things a manufactured arrogance and aggression cannot cover up.

Despite the pain, Isaac smiles.  _ Hector must not be much worse.  _ He manages to drag himself an inch forward, a patch of dandelions finding themselves ripped out of the ground by Isaac’s grip.  _ He’s not strong enough to survive. _

And in a brush not so far away, Hector wonders if that’s true. If there was even a point in living, given what he’s done. The families he’s torn apart. The land he had laid to waste. He can never forget that Sunday, how his parents begged for forgiveness, begging inside a burning church. Hector would like to pretend that it wasn’t his fault.

After all, he had no control over which wolves barged into which congregation, and which crows toppled what candles. But maybe if he had just been strong enough, hadn’t shown his hurt…

A stabbing pain brings him back to the present. Hector doesn’t dare to move his hand from his thigh, to stop the pressure keeping him from bleeding out. He selfishly wished he hadn’t survived at all. That he’d be left dead in the woods, for the villagers to find and celebrate the death of another witch.

A rabbit scurries from midnight’s darkness, and accompanies Hector by his side. He is grateful for the companionship. His palm bloodies the rabbit’s white fur, but it seems only to be equally grateful for this show of love.

It is then that he sees the woman. She is winding herself through a maze of trees, a lantern illuminating the intricate patterns on her robes, calling out something.

One of the wonders of Castlevania was the advanced science. And with that came a procedure and accompanying mechanism allowing him to hear. Lisa had been the one to do the surgery, but he suspected the technology was from Dracula himself. But due to being tossed around and hitting his head during the battle, his hearing is completely gone. But he suspects whatever she said didn’t really matter, as her face freezes the second she spies him.

She starts to approach him. The rabbit races from under his hand and into a nearby barrow. Hector tries to read her lips, but all he can get is the word  _ rose.  _ No. That’s not right. No, it must be her name; she’s saying it again now-- It has to be  _ Rosaly. _

She timidly holds out her hand, mimicking a child approaching a wild animal. He thinks she is saying  _ It will be okay.  _ But that can’t be right. Surely his state looks far too worse for that.

Hector gestures for her to move the lantern closer to him, and she does so. He points to himself, then raises his hand towards her and begins to sign--  _ H-E-C-T-O-R. _

She nods, and Hector is incredibly grateful she understands.

She answers with  _ R-O-S-A-L-Y.  _ So he was right. It’s not very noticeable, and buried under blood and dirt, but he smiles slightly. After all, it is such a beautiful name.

_ C-A-N   Y-O-U   S-T-A-N-D _

Hector shifts his gaze down to his thigh, and his hand soaked completely will blood. She looks, but almost immediately turns away. For a moment, he thinks she might throw up.

_ I  W-I-L-L  G-E-T  H-E-L-P _

He simply nods in gratitude, and gives her a weak smile. Maybe living for another week or so wouldn’t be all that bad. 


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i tried to write more than usual to make up for the delay! this is my last week of high school ever sooooooo i'll be more ontop of things starting next week (i hope)!

_February 7 1479_

Sitting in a tavern amongst a sea of drunken farmers is not a desirable date by any standard. But the Mountain View tavern was the only thing open at this time of night, and this time of night was the only point when both Adrian and Trevor could be in public together.

Adrian has the cloak of his hood pulled over his ears and shrouding his eyes, masking his most noticeable vampiric traits. There was nothing to be done about the fangs except to mumble and try to stifle laughter at Trevor’s antics. And so Trevor Belmont and a shadowy figure are sitting in a bar, like the start of an awful joke, mere fodder for a punchline.

And perhaps that came in the form of a slammed door. The singing and cheering and yells snap into silence. The figure at the door is bloodied, gasping, absolutely horrified. Trevor stands up. Adrian follows.

“What’s happened?”

“Dracula’s legion is back!”

The weight of those they had lost to fangs and hellfire hangs in the room and settles into a horrified disbelief. Adrian feels an immense amount of shame and self-loathing, as if his blood means he is half responsible. Maybe he is.

“Tell me exactly what you saw.” Trevor’s voice is hasty, but focused.

“A demon! Wings ‘n all! He ‘ad some sorta crystal stickin’ outta ‘em!”

Adrian’s eyes widen.

“Where?”

“The bridge by the lagoon!”

Without a word more, Trevor moves towards the door, and Adrian follows. They push past the man and into the dark. Adrian takes the lead and holds Trevor’s hand to guide him through the night.

“This is the work of a Devil Forgemaster,” Adrian states, voice numb in shock.

“I thought you told me there were only two, and both lay dead?”

“I did.”

They head towards the cobblestone bridge, but both notice the screams before the path. Trevor draws his whip and starts running. Adrian loses his sword from his belt and keeps the pace. Before them lies a grave of felled trees, lit torches on the grass spilling flame into wildfire, and a demon undeniably summoned by a Devil Forgemaster. Its image is akin to a lanky gargoyle, complete with wings, horns, claws, and a grayscale coloring.

Adrian notices that its magic is just dripping with Isaac’s lifeforce. But he’s dead. They’re both dead.

Trevor doesn’t have time to wait for Adrian to process his grief. He forces himself into the demon’s battleground, and lashes his whip in its direction. It wraps around the demon’s ankle and with a yank, the beast comes toppling down to scorched ground.

Adrian snaps himself out of it and pulls himself into the fight. He glances to make sure no bystanders are around, and to his relief they aren’t. It’s safe. He pulls his hood out of his face and summons his energy to pool around his fingertips. Magic yawns out his splayed palms and into the night wind, simply lingering around his hands.

He looks to Trevor. Trevor nods. Adrian knows what to do.

Light ripples from the dhampir to the innocent devil, strands of gold weaving themselves around the creature to form a web. The creature screeches in response. Adrian twists his heels into the dirt, grounds his weight to Earth, channels more of his life force into the entrapment.

Trevor runs towards the monster, throwing a potion of holy water at its feet. The innocent devil let out another howl and tries to stomp the burning feeling out. It’s distracted, no longer focused on Adrian. Good.

Trevor and Adrian share another glance before they both attack, Adrian soaring above to stab his sword into its eye, Trevor letting his whip unfurl into the creature’s torso. And all at once the innocent devil, and any trace of Isaac, is gone in a flash of blinding light.

“Are you alright?” Trevor is the first to ask, which is somewhat of a first.

“Yes. Yourself?”

“I’m fine.”

Adrian nods. He pulls up his hood, takes Trevor’s hand, and begins the walk home. Trevor wants to talk, probably about the recent weather, or approaching winter, or if they would ever learn any other dual attacks. But he can tell Adrian is too drowned in thought for that.

“Do you know if Sypha still lives with Julia?” Adrian finally asks.

“I believe so. Why?”

“If Isaac is alive, surely Julia will know.”

“She has never given any indication--”

“I know,” Adrian snaps. “But I’m not sure what I can trust right now.”

And Trevor wants to wonder what that means in terms of their own relationship, but he doesn’t have the luxury of wasting time in pensiveness. So instead he runs his thumb over the back of Adrian’s hand, appreciates the moon staring at itself in the lagoon, and tries to pretend that this was a good date.


End file.
